


Unlocked

by Concetta20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 12:20:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9384803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Concetta20/pseuds/Concetta20
Summary: The aftermath.Enough said.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Goodness gracious … well … that was quite a roller coaster, wasn't it You know the acting and writing are really good when after committing so many evil acts, you feel sorry for her and empathize … Well, at least I did. And that scene where Sherlock is playing the violin with her and then the family is there-- oh, that got me! But this fic is not about Eurus, so … back to the other heart-wrencher … But in a more positive way … I've never written a Sherlock fanfic, but like many of you, it seems, have been similarly moved-quite strongly- to the keyboard by the last episode and THAT AMAZING scene. Hats off to Louise (and to all) for some phenomenal acting, she really outdid herself.

 

"I love you."

Click.

The mobile phone slipped from her cold fingers onto the hardwood floor, the bottom left corner striking first, cracking the screen diagonally across. Molly leaned against the dishwasher and slid down until she was on the floor, her heated cheeks pressed against the cool, nickel-brushed metal of the door. She stared at the black, blank, cracked screen staring back at her. For some reason the Lady of Shallot came to mind.

She knew she should have bought a screen protector …

There were a lot of things, more important things, that should have protected.

Like her heart.

\- Oh, she had tried, she really had.

It had been hard with Sherlock using her flat as a bolt-hole, using her room because it had a "better vantage point" of the street than the spare she had offered.

After that Molly's relationship with Sherlock seemed to relax into a comfortable friendship. She cherished it, the trust and the respect . . . it was more than she could have ever hoped for . . .

Molly had worked hard to kill the crush and, for a brief time, had nearly convinced herself that Sherlock was on his way out of her heart.

That's when she let Tom in.

And so her heart waited by the ember, willing it to burn out.

Leave it to Sherlock to come along with a poker and not realize he was stirring something up …

Watching Sherlock as he gave his honestly moving "Best Man" speech at John's wedding made her realize that, despite her efforts, at some point she had gone from mere infatuation to deep, abiding, no returning from, love.

The callous request Sherlock had made of her over the phone that day would not have surprised Molly had it been the Sherlock of five years ago.

But, it wasn't. This was the Sherlock who had said that she had counted the most, that he trusted her.

 _"I'm not an experiment,_ Sherlock _."_

_"I know you're not an experiment- you're my friend-we're friends . . ."_

What in the world kind of experiment/case was he involved in? Was he surrounded by a group of suspects and/or scientists? By the echo in his voice he had been in a large, relatively empty room. Had he been in a lab?

_Oh, God, had she been on speakerphone?_

_"Molly, please …"_ There had been an urgency in his voice-but not the urgent excitement of Holmes on the cusp of closing a case, but of panic, fear ...

_I love you …_

_I love you ..._

She would not have complied with his game-or experiment-whatever it was; she would never have let those three words escape from her lips if he had stopped at that one "I love you".

But he had not. He had said it again . . . and something about the way he said it electrified her. It sounded so real . . . Her last ounce of pride and self-control was gone and she let her heart answer.

The sensation she felt when the line went dead was akin to a punch in the stomach. Doubt set in, quickly followed by mortification and grief.

Molly was not sure how long she had sat on the floor staring at her phone-hours judging by the fact that it was now dusk.

She would probably have let another whole hour pass by had not her doorbell rung.

Alarm rippled through her.

She heard the front door knob turn. Molly clumsily scrambled to her feet, her cramped legs threatening to buckle under her.

She had forgotten about the spare key.

But it was not Sherlock who came marching through her foyer but a tall blonde woman, beautiful enough for a Paris catwalk. Her head was bent over a Blackberry on which she was feverishly typing.

Molly quickly glanced around to see if there was anything in the immediate vicinity of her reach to use as a weapon.

Nothing. Not even her house keys.

"Who are you and how come you were able to get into my flat?"

"My name is Anthea," the woman said, still not looking up from her device. "I work for Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock?"

"His brother. Start the sweep"

The last words were directed curtly over the shoulder pad of her expensive-looking blazer.

In the next moment Molly's flat was flooded with men in what resembled SWAT gear.

"Hang on-" Molly protested as she watched the strangers invade her space, clearly searching for something. "What-?"

First a cold, then a forced confession, and now this … it was all too much.

Anthea, her attention still taken up by the Blackberry, replied "Sorry, I'm not permitted to disclose anything at this time."

"Ms. Jones," a member of the team approached, "we have cleared the premises of all surveillance devices and confirmed that there are no explosives in or around the immediate vicinity ."

Surveillance.

Explosives.

Molly sputtered "You bloody _will_ disclose what is going on, and I mean _now_! I have a right to know!"

"Mr. Holmes will explain it to you well enough, I'm sure. He should be here any minute." Anthea drawled, turning on her heel.

"Which-?"

"Have a nice night." And as suddenly as they had arrived, they disappeared, leaving no trace that they had ever been there.

Molly stood in the middle of her living room, listening to the government vehicles pulling away until all was quiet again.

Molly went into her bedroom and began hurriedly stuffing clothes and toiletries into her gym-bag.

* * *

 

"Thanks, Bruce, I really appreciate you covering for me at such short notice. Yeah. I'll be back on Tuesday. Thanks again- oh, and tell Deb thanks for the chicken soup, I'm feeling better already. See you in a week."

Molly pressed the end call button gingerly, carefully of the cracked screen. She leaned her aching forehead against the cool glass of the train car window, watching as familiar landmarks zipped by. The forceful search of her flat had confirmed what she had begun to suspect, something big had happened with Sherlock, something very dangerous. It wasn't just an "experiment"; she had been in danger and it had been related to the "phone thing" as she was mentally calling it. Her brain was too tired to pick it apart, and yet it kept forcing her to turn over the brief conversation over and over again, and not only what was said, but what could have been said instead, and what should not have been.

It was not long before exhaustion claimed her and she fell asleep before she even realized her eyes had closed . . .

Molly woke with a jolt. She rubbed her bleary eyes, thankful that her headache seemed to be gone. The familiar view out the window told her that the train was about to pull into Penzance Station; she had woken up just in time, feeling a little more refreshed by the six hour nap.

* * *

 

Molly pulled on the old warped door so the key would turn in the rusty lock. The "Leaf and Needle" a tea room/crafting shop her mother owned and lived above was originally an apothecary, constructed in 1715. It had been added on, subtracted from, then finally restored to something of its former glory once it was finally designated as a Grade II listed building in the 1970's.

"Mum, I'm here," Molly called as she mounted the ancient, narrow staircase. She had phoned before setting out and knew she would be waiting up for her.

"Mum?" Molly opened the first floor door.

"Welcome home, Molly!" her mother said brightly while casually handing a plate of biscuits to Sherlock who was taking tea at the breakfast table.

Molly's gym bag slipped off her shoulder and landed on her feet. Mrs. Hooper walked quickly over to her and gave her a peck on the cheek and tucked a stray strand behind Molly's ear. "I have to pop out to the chemists' real quick," she said gently, "Back in a tic."

"Mum-" But she was out the door. Her heart pounding loudly in her ears, Molly slowly turned to face the man now standing by her breakfast room table. Sherlock awkwardly cleared his throat and held up her mother's Royal Albert "Old Country Roses" tea pot, complete with tea cozy of incongruous color.

"Tea?"


	2. Tea and Sympathy

_How?_

That was the question Molly had learned to stop asking when it came to Sherlock.

And yet she still asked it anyway.

“Mycroft” was his answer.

“Ah.” _Of course._

Molly had the urge to turn and run out of the door but her desire for answers outweighed her mortification and anger. Instead she stiffly, slowly, made her way over to the little round table and sat in a chair, her eyes fixed on the amateur detective.

“Sugar?” Holmes said with a forced casualness, as if he were trying to reassume his usual careless manner and failing miserably.

Molly nodded and watched him drop a cube into the cup. Never in a million years would she have thought to be served tea by Sherlock Holmes--and with her mother’s Royal Albert, nonetheless.

“Milk?”

“Yes . . . thank you.”

Sherlock poured in the tea after the milk and placed the cup and saucer before her.

“Biscuit?”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock, startled by the sudden change in volume, but not the irritation behind it, almost fumbled the dish but succeeded in putting it down safely. He cleared his throat again and straightened his jacket lapels.

Molly crossed her arms and pursed her thin lips into a barely visible line.

“Why are you here, Sherlock?” She hissed, looking him up and down.

All of Sherlock’s body language and expression was new to her. He was clearly discomposed and he was letting her see it. He ran a shaking hand over his lips and made a last ditch effort to hide:

“You know why I'm here.”

“Do I?” Molly quirked up a sardonic eyebrow, clutching onto her last ounce of anger to maintain the outward appearance of righteous indignation, for her pride’s sake; all the while her arms were aching to wrap around--to cradle . . .

_Sherlock . . ._

He looked so confused and lost . . .

Molly dug her fingernails into her arms.

“The fact that my flat was cleared of cameras and explosives six hours ago tells me that I was in some sort of danger . . . and you were, too . . . weren't you . . .?”

“ . . . Yes.”

Molly’s grip on her arms loosened slightly.

Sherlock slowly sank sat down into the chair on Molly’s right.

“The . . . the bombs that . . . that this person had allegedly installed were set to go off . . . unless you said the release code--”

“‘I love you’?”

Sherlock, who had been avoiding prolonged eye contact with Molly up to this point, looked at her sharply. She saw his Adam’s apple bob up and down.

“Yes. I wasn't allowed to warn you that you were in danger, that was one of the conditions. She threatened to detonate the explosives if I did.”

Molly unfolded her arms and leaned forward, anger forgotten now, curiosity and concern for Sherlock superseding her pride.

“‘She?’”

Sherlock gave a long, shuddering sigh and dragged his still shaking hands down his face. He winced and looked at them with a frown.

“What's wrong?” Molly asked.

Sherlock glanced up. “Oh, it's nothing.” He tucked his hands between his knees.

Molly rose from the chair and approached Sherlock. “If it's nothing, why are you hiding them?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, a shadow of indignation passing over his face. “I'm not hiding anything.”

Molly yanked his hands up and inspected them. She had never seen so many splinters on one hand, let alone two. His hands looked like how she would imagine a shaved porcupine might: thousands of tiny brown slivers surrounded by angry, red welts and dried blood.

“How did this happen?”

“I’m coming to that . . .” Sherlock muttered. Molly let go of his hands and stood.

“Molly, it's fine--”

She ignored him and walked out of the room returning with tweezers, cotton swabs, and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. She pulled her chair up to Sherlock’s so she was seated in front of him then grabbed his left hand and got to work.

Sherlock gave the appendage a half-hearted tug but Molly tightened her grip.

“Molly, you don’t have to--”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together.

The pair sat in silence for a few minutes as Molly worked.

“So . . . what happened?” She finally asked.

“I thought you wanted me to shut up.”

Molly pinched more of his flesh than was necessary between the tweezers.

“Ow! Okay, fine . . . I . . . I obliterated a coffin with my bare hands . . .”

Molly paused to glare up at him. “Sherlock if you're trying to be funny . . . It's not.”

Sherlock sighed, knowing how bizarre it sounded out of context.

“I suppose I should start at the beginning . . .”

. . . . .

Sherlock went through the entire story, beginning with the uncovering of his lost childhood memories. Her heart lurched in anguish as she imagined the fear and despair of Victor at the bottom of that well, unfound and the disturbing revelation of his sister’s part in it caused her to gasp in shock. Tears sprang to her eyes as she heard the confused grief of the little boy who had lost his best friend, his home, and his sister in a very short amount of time.

Sherlock felt something warm and wet drop on his open palm and knew Molly was crying.

“No, I'm alright,” she insisted when Sherlock tried to apologetically pull his hand away. She brushed her nose with her wrist and sniffled, “go on.”

Sherlock then told her everything that happened at Sherringford.

Everything.

On hearing the account of the governor and his wife Molly could not keep the tears from streaking down her face again, but she swiped them away before they landed on Sherlock’s hands, which she continued to work on. The activity helped her process the story; but when he got to the part about the room with the coffin she stilled.

“ . . . You appeared on a monitor--”

Molly squeezed her eyes shut. “The cameras . . .” She murmured.

“I'm so sorry, Molly, I should've noticed that they were there--”

“Never mind. Just finish it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked remorseful but obeyed, relating to her the rest of it, how he found his lost and broken sister in her burned-out childhood room. He rescued her and rescued his second best friend from suffering the same fate as the first.

“I then hopped on a helicopter and landed in a field near here where they were having some sort of open air theatre . . .”

A smile tugged at Molly’s lips momentarily before sinking back into a sad line.

“I'm so sorry, Sherlock . . .”

“Why are you sorry?” He asked, looking at her bent head in confusion.

“I mean, I'm sorry this happened to you . . . It must have been . . . so hard . . . I just can't imag--”

The words died in Molly’s throat because she felt his forehead rest lightly on the crown of her head.

“Why, Molly?” He said simply. His proximity and the tremulous way he said her name sent her heart slamming against her ribcage, scattering her thoughts.

“‘Why?’” Molly dumbly repeated.

“Why do you love me?” He clarified, “I don't . . . I don't understand . . .

“How could you love someone like me-- A wreck? An arrogant, selfish, manipulative, broken wreck; the worst best friend, and even worse godfather; a man who doesn't even know his own heart until it's forced out of him by his psychopathic sister.”

Molly raised her head. Sherlock’s nose was inches from hers; his eyes were full of confusion, grief . . . and wonder.

Molly’s own heart was beating wildly in her chest. “Sherlock,” she began, trying to keep her voice steady, “do you really think so little of me that you think I'd be in love with the man you just described?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly, his gaze locked on hers. “No?”

“No.”

Molly put down the tweezers and, hesitatingly at first, ran her fingers through the dark curls around Sherlock’s ear, pushing them back.

“You may call yourself a high functioning sociopath, Sherlock, but you're not. You have few friends, it's true, but those you do have you care very deeply about and keep close. As for your cases, you may call them a game, a puzzle, a way to pass the time, but I think the real reason you do them is because you want to use the mind you've been gifted with to help others and you long for the affirmation that comes afterward.” Molly stopped as if she suddenly seemed to remember herself and blushed, feeling presumptuous. “Sorry. That's just my deduction,” Molly gave him a small, shy smile “ . . . for what it's worth.”

Sherlock stared at her with a nonplussed expression. Molly began to feel self-conscious. She pulled her hand away from his face, but he caught it, ignoring the subsequent pain from the splinters.

“I didn't even realize how deeply I felt until I said it,” Sherlock murmured, drawing closer. “And then I was trapped. She--Eurus--made me say what I wasn’t ready to say-- what I wasn't ready to deal with . . .”

Understanding lit Molly’s eyes. “ _That’s_ why you said it twice . . .”

“Yes.”

“Are you . . . ready now?” Molly ventured.

“I don't know. What I do know is that I don't deserve you, Molly Hooper,” Sherlock said firmly.

Molly’s lips spread into a gentle, self-deprecating smile. “I could say the same thing.”

Sherlock pulled back slightly, frowning.

“Don't be ridiculous, Molly. You deserve a well-adjusted romantic man who will go frolicking down a sunset beach with you, give you flowers everyday and never forget birthdays and anniversaries.”

Molly’s smiled broadened.

“There was a time when I thought the same, when I idealized you. That was before I fell for the real Sherlock Holmes. I've changed, Sherlock--grown up. _You_ changed me.

“Do you know that the times I've been happiest were the times when I was just sitting with you in the lab, or doing that case with you, eating cupcakes with you on your birthday . . . Just spending time with you, no matter where we are is all I can ever ask for . . . and all I want.”

The amateur detective’s eyes widened slightly as he recalled John’s speech about the love of a good woman:

_“They make you want to be the man they already think you are. You don't deserve them . . . and that's the point, Sherlock . . . that's the point.”_

Sherlock slowly brought his hands up and cradled her small, sweet face between them.

“Oh, Molly . . .” He leaned forward and brought her lips to his in a tender kiss.

Molly immediately leaned into him with a sigh and wrapped her arms around his neck. Sherlock pulled her into his lap.

When they parted for air Sherlock saw that she had started crying again. He gently wiped her tears away. “I adore you, Molly Hooper.”

“As well you should,” she said, giving a watery laugh, “after all you'be put me through.”

Suddenly, the sound of the flat door opening startled them and they instinctively broke the embrace. But not fast enough.

“Oh, bother,” Mrs. Hooper exclaimed, “did I come back too early?”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this chapter was inspired by a brilliant analysis on Tumblr by "bassfanimation" called "'I Love You: from a man's perspective" and she outlines her husband's absolutely brilliant and insightful analysis of that episode and how it ties into the whole of the series. I highly recommend it.


End file.
